Hourglass
by LifeBecameAScreenplay
Summary: Tegan reflects on her relationship with Sara. Quincest drabble.


**A/N: I didn't really intend on posting this on FF, but seeing that I have a few readers that don't use tumblr, I figured I'd post it here, as well. Just some fluffy feels from Tegan. Enjoy!**

**Hourglass**

When we were 10, we took a day trip with mum to Lake Louise. You spent a solid few hours, broken into fifteen minute intervals, studying your hands beneath the surface of the water. I inquired about your strange fixation, though you said I wouldn't understand. Something about how you were curious whether or not the reflection of the lake worked the same way the reflection of a mirror did. But I didn't have an answer for you then. We were only ten, after all.

When we were 15, we took to wandering the streets of Calgary late at night, watching our shadows stretch beyond human dimensions beneath the streetlights. You spent an hour or so, broken into ten minute intervals, in utter silence in hopes of understanding why your shadow stood taller than my own, despite the fact that I had an inch or two on you. I recall asking through puffs of a cigarette what the hell you were doing, though you simply shot me a look that explained I wouldn't understand before returning to your peculiar investigation. I never received an answer then. We were fifteen and lost in smoke.

When we were 18, we sat on the back porch at nana and papa's home as the summer leaves slowly turned their September hues before drifting graciously to the ground. You spent the entire weekend, broken into gazes lost in thought, watching as the world around us became a storybook of reds and oranges. While in the midst of replacing the steel strings of your guitar, you looked over and asked if I believed the leaves were capable of feeling their descent to the ground from the trees that stretched into the pale blue sky. Higher than the reach of those goddamn trees, I closed my eyes and refused to watch the last moments of their lives, insisting that they were capable of feeling pain just as we were. I had an answer for you then. We were 18 and I believed I held every answer, along with the entire world, in the palm of my hands.

When we were 23, the blistering cold winter we were well acquainted with in Canada had been turned head first into rays of seventy, sometimes eighty degree rays of sun in California. Over beer on the beach, you watched your toes disappear beneath sand white enough to be snow, wondering if you were capable of willing your mind to feel the frostbite. When it refused to come, you looked to me and asked if I believed we had made the proper decision in following a dream most took as far fetched nonsense from the scatterbrained minds of two twins chasing a light they'd never reach. I gawked at you before taking my hand to the back of your head, storming off in disbelief. You told me later that you were sorry, that you were merely scared of the possibility that we had been wrong along. We were 23 then. I had comforting enough words to console you with.

When we were 27, you had your heart smashed to pieces by a woman you believed you needed more than the earth needed the sun. I watched you crumble over divorce papers in the closet of your bedroom in a shoe box sized apartment in Montreal on a lonely January morning. I reminded you that life had more to offer than the momentary comfort of lovers who would come and go as the years continued on, though you shoved me against a wall just to scream in my face that I'd never understand what true love was, simply for the fact that I had yet to settle down. I looked on as you scrubbed your floors until your fingers were worn to nothing more than calluses, your frail body weak as your heart threatened to stop beating without another to keep it company. We were 27 then, and I spent the night beside you and beneath your sheets, if only to provide a temporary answer when your weakened heart called out for reassurance.

When we were 30, we celebrated over champagne in Europe when I announced that I was ready to take the plunge with a woman who had become my partner in crime. One glass turned to two, two turned to three, and by the end of the night the scent of your shampoo was fresh against my pillow case when you confessed that you had fallen in love again. I inquired excitedly, though the solemn look in your eyes forced you to turn your back and watch the setting sun as it dipped beyond your view from the window. When I insisted that you confide in me, you did so by crashing your lips against my own in the most suffocating kiss I had ever experienced, the swell of your waves crashing against my shore enough to leave me wondering if I were drowning. You promised you weren't jealous of her, that you would of course be my maid of honour, before falling prisoner to the lull of slumber with dried tears staining your cheeks. We were thirty then, and I was left attempting to stay afloat amidst my confusion.

When we were 32, my lover that I had spent countless years chasing dropped to her knee yielding a ring in hopes of spending the rest of her life in my company. You fled, blinded by tears that stung your honey coloured eyes, leaving me to give chase in hopes of mending the shattered heart your previous wife had left in her wake, taking the red string that kept us together and stitching you up as properly as I could manage. You spent an hour in my arms, sobbing until you couldn't catch a decent breath, begging me not to give my heart up to someone who it didn't belong to. I reeled away, though your muscles fought the distance, keeping me closer than you had ever held anybody else. We were thirty two then, and I came to the realization that my heart was not mine to give away, seeing that it had been in your possession since the moment of our conception.

We're thirty three today, aimlessly wandering the streets of Florida as our sun thirsty skin takes in the warmth of southern rays. There's a simple red band about my finger, its exact match about your own, the fourth finger of the left hand meant to symbolize the old belief of bloodflow to the heart. And while the idea's romantic, I don't believe there's anything more romantic than the idea that we've been forced into sharing a soul since our first breath, forced into breathing the air of the other when exhaled. And when I look into your eyes that double as the windows to your soul, I see everything I've never been capable of being and everything I've always hoped to find. It's taken all this time to arrive here, but for a simple moment of feeling complete in your presence, I'd let it all run its course again if it meant this peace of mind at the end.


End file.
